Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  He cast his gaze over the knots of people in the hall, and when he saw me, his eyebrows lifted. “Ah,” he said. “Scribe, right?” He spoke Sartoran with an accent.

  “I am.” I recognized the signs of superior rank, and wondered how to politely demand his name. “Scribe Emras, in service to Princess Lasthavais of Colend.”

  He smacked his hands together and rubbed them, grinning. “Am I the best, or am I not?”

  “The best what?” I said, hiding laughter and surprise.

  “At finding the right person at the right time. So.” He looked down at me, his lazy lids narrowing as if he, too, was hiding laughter. “You wouldn’t happen to have been sent to find out who we are? Who he is.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the double doors, opened to let in the cool summer air. “I saw that look of hers. Didn’t even know that my handsome self was in the room. Or alive. Whew! We call that ‘the clap of thunder’ at home.”

  There was no protocol for this moment, so I fell back on decorum. “Her highness gave me a task.”

  Macael chuckled. “Scribal discretion! I recognize it from home. Come on outside. It’s cooler. He’s gone. You talk to me, I’ll talk to you. How’s that?”

  He took my arm, the way he’d take that of a friend. I pulled away, saying, “I was sent on a simple task.”

  Macael flashed a knowing grin. “I’m not going to pry anything out of you that you don’t want to give. I know how tight-lipped you scribes are, though I also know you and the heralds have got everyone’s secrets scribbled down somewhere. Never mind, I won’t figure in any histories. Too fatiguing. But people are starting to take an interest in you and me standing here like this.”

  It was true. A few speculative glances were cast our way from servants passing to and fro and even from courtiers. There was Rontande, lips pursed, strolling arm in arm with another courtier. So I walked outside with a prince, uneasy and curious all at once.

  He gestured toward the grassy knoll nearby, where earlier the Countess Darva and others had observed the arrivals.

  “I am Macael Elsarion, second son to the Queen of Enaeran,” he said. “And in a complicated web of intermarriages that would bore anyone but the heralds, a cousin to Ivandred Montredaun-An, heir to the throne of Marloven Hesea.” He tipped his head toward the door.

  “Marloven Hesea,” I repeated. He did not say “Hes-ay-ah” in our manner, but “HESS-yah.”

  “Yes, and what you’re not saying is, ‘Those barbarians?’ Or maybe, ‘Oh no, I’d better run before those nasty Compact-ignoring Marlovens shoot me.’” He grinned, his teeth showing briefly in the light pouring from the row of open windows. “Am I right?”

  “I know very little about that side of the continent,” I said diplomatically and bowed. “Thank you for the information, your highness.”

  Macael was rubbing his shoulder, evolving an idea. “And what you’ve heard is probably pretty bad. Look. You’ve heard of Elgar the Fox, right?”

  I stopped, surprised by this unrelated question. “Of course I have.”

  “Bet you didn’t know he was not only real, he was a Marloven.”

  “He wasn’t real,” I said with conviction. “No more real than Peddler Antivad, he of the folk tales. We studied Elgar the Fox as a lesson in how kingdoms borrow myths to bolster their own history. You will find that he’s claimed by every kingdom from Khanerenth to Bermund and Bren.”

  “He was,” Macael stated, “a distant relation of mine. No, I can see you don’t believe that. Then how about this. You’ve heard of a book written by another of my ancestors, Take Heed, My Heirs, right?”

  “It is a memoir by the Adrani king several centuries ago, the same king who married an ancestral connection of my princess. Her name was Joret Dei.”

  He applauded lightly. “Take Heed, My Heirs is required reading for all princes except your Colendi royals, no doubt.”

  “I think they read it, too,” I said.

  “Interesting. My point is, you know it was written by a specific king—in fact, another ancestor of mine. Far more direct, I can show you the records, if you like. That is, if I could go to Nente and not be arrested on sight, because of the split between us and the Adranis. But I know the record is there, and so is the fact that King Valdon Shagal wrote it for Elgar the Fox’s wife. She ended her life in Nente, though she was a Marloven.”

  I said, “That is very interesting, thank you.”

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken, “And she talked about having read another record of Elgar’s life, written by one of Ivandred’s ancestors. His name wasn’t actually Elgar, by the way. It makes interesting reading, if you like adventure. I even happen to have a copy, right here, with me—because Van’s sister translated it as a gift for her new husband. She gave me her work draft, before she copied it out fair.”

  I hesitated, trying to find a diplomatic way of saying So what does this information have to do with me?

  Macael gave me a wry grin. “I’m telling you this because Van’s my cousin, and the farther east I get, the more I hear about barbarians. If your princess wants to meet him, well, it occurred to me, here’s something about his people that she might find interesting. Maybe even help his cause a little—boost his prestige. I know you Colendi are proud of your famous ancestors. Well, everyone is. If they have ’em.”

  He made a quick gesture, expressive of regret, even embarrassment.

  I’d been thinking rapidly. Lasva had shown interest in something—in someone—for the first time in weeks. I had no idea if her interest would last long enough for her to wish to speak to this Prince Ivandred, but I was so glad to see an expression besides her shuttered misery that I would do anything to encourage her. And this Prince Macael cared enough about his cousin to want me to think well of him.

  I said, “I would very much like to borrow it, if I may.”

  “Excellent. Come along. I’ll give it to you right now.”

  He led me back to the rooms they’d taken, where servants were busy setting things to rights. The Marloven prince was not there. Macael dashed into one of the bed chambers, leaving me alone with the busy servants, who ignored me. Moments later he returned and placed a heavy scroll in my hands.

  “We’re riding along with the rest of you into Colend,” he said. “So you can give it back any time you like. Go ahead and make a copy for yourself—my cousin is about to marry a king, so she won’t care. In fact, I think she’d like this plan of mine. Share it with anyone you think might be interested. The more the better, if it helps Van’s cause.”

  I departed and returned to Lasva, who glanced at the scroll in my hands. “This is one of their histories,” I said, offering it. “It’s supposed to be about Elgar the Fox, who Prince Macael insists was a real person. This was written at the same time as King Valdon’s Advice to His Son.”

  “Hatahra had me read that when I was ten.” She looked away from the scroll. “It was funny, but what a horrible time in history. Wars, pirates, a dreadful time—and my own ancestor, as you know, was King Lael the Recumbent.” She touched her lips in the moth kiss, the sign of courtly humiliation through flattery, and I thought of the king who was known only for the excesses of his flirtations—and how he used to test for too-ambitious ladies by farting to see whose expression stayed sweet.

  Lasva said, “Would you mind reading it first? You know the kind of things I like.”

  A week went by.

  I read An Examination of Greatness, which was the title of the Elgar the Fox story translated by Princess Tharais. At first I’d found it difficult. Not the language, which was serviceable if old-fashioned Sartoran, but the many words not translated that hinted at a way of life that seemed impossibly foreign. And disagreeable.

  Still, the “Elgar” who emerged—and the unfamiliar world underlying our familiar world—was real enough to convince me that Indevan Algara-Vayir had actually lived, and so, following impulse, I began to copy his history out in fine script. After a page or two of that stil
ted Sartoran, I decided to translate it into Kifelian.

  We saw Prince Ivandred twice more, as he and his silent riders paced us from a distance. Lasva was always surrounded by Darva and Ananda and the others. Their second encounter was too brief to record—except for the way their gazes met then quickly shifted away—but Ivandred and Lasva’s third encounter occurred at the end of that week, when a thunderstorm boiling up made everyone on the road within a half-bell’s ride take shelter in a guard post above the river.

  The river being the border, the guard post was not a Colendi building—we did not have such things as guard posts, except along the mountains shared with the Chwahir. It not being Colendi meant it had no comforts. So there were all these courtiers caught in a barren building with only plank tables and benches to sit at, as the storm poured all around. I stood near Lasva. Abruptly she turned around.

  Later, I realized there must have been sounds—the slow tread of the Marloven heeled boots—maybe even scents, like the combination of horse and wildgrass, that signified the new arrivals. But at the time, I was surprised when she stilled, her body tense, poised in the same manner as when we met Kaidas on the Lily Gate wedding terrace early in spring. Her chin jerked up, just the breadth of a finger, and again she locked gazes with Ivandred of Marloven Hesea.

  Lasva forgot the world. It was I who looked around anxiously, relieved that everyone was too busy with their own concerns, as Lasva thought about how Kaidas had brought her gradually to feel that way. This Prince Ivandred set fire to her bones by looking at her across a room.

  She knew it was mere attraction, as ephemeral—and as trustworthy—as a butterfly in a wind. It had happened twice, but in crowded rooms, because when was she ever free? If she ordered them all away, the consequence would be unending inquiry, gossip, innuendo. If they were to meet and talk, it must be in private.

  Dear Tiflis:

  You have often asked me to be on the lookout for a likely book, or subject, that might appeal to court. I think I have such a subject. We met some foreign princes on the road. They are coming to Alsais. It could be that people will find them interesting, as one of them has as an ancestor none other than Elgar the Fox. And since the writer is dead, you wouldn’t have to pay the Writer’s Fee. The translation into modern Sartoran was done by Princess Tharais, soon to be queen of Remalna, who donated her draft. It was translated into Kifelian by me.

  I knew Tiflis’s scribe sigil. I had never trespassed by using crown funds for expensive magical transfer, but I did so now.

  I wrapped up the copy I’d made, which was considerably less weighty than Macael’s scroll, and sent it to Tiflis.

  TWELVE

  OF HORSES IN FLIGHT

  “T

  alk to her,” Macael said to Ivandred a few days later. “No. Not with these ribbon-prancers all jostling for her attention.”

  Macael smothered the urge to laugh. Ivandred was easily the most formidable human being Macael had ever met, heir to a kingdom at least the size of Colend, yet he was chary of speaking to the most polite princess on the continent. “What do you think she will do, bite you?”

  “I’d like her to bite me,” Ivandred said, flashing his rare smile. “But supposing I elbow my way into the crowd always around her, we’d have to fumble through a conversation about music, or plays, or some other thing I have no experience of, without any talk to the point.”

  “The point being…?”

  Ivandred turned his hand over as he squinted up to assess the weather. The morning breeze was cool, bearing a hint of winter each time the sun passed behind fluffy clouds. “I want to talk to her alone,” he said finally. “She doesn’t walk out alone.”

  Macael could have left it at that. He was sorely tempted. But he’d promised Tharais. “Did you do treasure hunts for your Name Day celebrations?”

  “No.” Ivandred did not explain that his Name Day had never been celebrated, probably (so his aunt had told him, because there was no written record) because on the day his father came of age he had killed Ivandred’s grandfather.

  “A treasure hunt is when you search around, find clues of various sorts, which lead to other clues, and then at the end you get your surprise.”

  A small forest creature darted across the road. Ivandred’s mount was far too well-behaved to do more than snort and toss his head. Macael’s own horse pranced, eyes rolling.

  “Give me a scout report, not a guessing game.”

  “Well, this scout report is going to be another type of comparison. You know those drawing books all the younger courtiers are carrying around?”

  Ivandred flicked his fingers in question.

  “It’s a fad. You purchase this bound book of drawing papers, as expensive as you can afford. When you are invited somewhere to hear music or poetry, your hosts, or guests, or companions, male or female, draw in this album while you sit and listen. The object is to do a portrait of you. It could be a written portrait, if they don’t have the knack with a drawing-chalk.” He paused. “You know. Poems, or the like.”

  Ivandred lifted his eyes, tracking a dart of birds skyward, over a field of ripening wheat. His gaze arrowed back to the cause: it was only a trio of bounding young dogs. “Go on.”

  “So then, it’s a matter of who drew in your album, and who asked to see it after. It’s a kind of social competition. Except for the princess. Everyone wanted to draw in her book. She didn’t have to ask, she left it with her scribe to fetch back and forth because anywhere she went there was always a long line. See?”

  Ivandred stroked his chin with his gloved thumb. “I see. Her rank puts her above everyone.”

  “Well, it’s going to take some maneuvering to talk to her alone. The road is filling up, d’you see? And she’s at the center, whether she wants to be or not, and they’re all competing for her notice. Think of it as duels with words.”

  “One set of weapons I don’t have.” Ivandred opened his hand, smiling a little. “I don’t even know the rules.”

  Macael snapped his fingers. “Don’t camp with your boys tonight. There’s supposed to be a play in the next town. They’re all talking about it The playhouse arranged the performance in expectation of this cavalcade. You come with me. Maybe you’ll see the rules better.”

  Ivandred agreed, and so, later that evening, after he’d seen his people camped, he rode into the town and found the central inn, located on one side of a square paved with patterned stone. Opposite the local guild hall was a huge playhouse.

  He found Macael sitting on one of the many benches set under flowering trees. The air was cooling now that the sun had gone down, carrying unfamiliar scents.

  “You’ve seen plays, right?” Macael asked as they crossed the square through crowds enjoying the rapidly fading light.

  “Of course I have,” Ivandred said, surprised. “We do have plays in Dhelerei. You should come over the mountains and see one some winter. Always plenty of action. Good singing of the old ballads, as well.” Sometimes the ballads were so popular the entire audience would join in and maybe even insist on singing it through twice, drumming on the benches or anything to hand, before the stage battle recommenced.

  Glowglobes on elegant poles lit all at once. The playhouse was much bigger than the chamber used for plays in the royal castle at home. There had once been a city playhouse, down on Harness Makers’ Row. But it had been destroyed during the Olavairs’ civil war and was now an armory and waystation for the city guard.

  In this one, people sat on benches in the back, or in the rows and rows of plush chairs, or in boxes built into terraced balconies along the sides, affording a modicum of privacy. Macael paid for one of the last available boxes. The playhouse swiftly filled, the air permeating with the subtle blossom scents that Colendi seemed to like to wear.

  The cousins pushed the empty chairs back, paid for wine, then watched as a hanging curtain was drawn aside, revealing an illusory chamber fitted up in Colendi styles.

  The light was brilliant. Macael, in
a whisper, pointed out what Ivandred had instinctively noticed: that Colendi public spaces eradicated shadows. But not, apparently, for reasons of security.

  Before a word was spoken, already this play was utterly unlike anything at home where the opening scene would either be outside, before some castle or river location of the first battle, or else in a throne room or jarl’s hall where the command to battle would be given.

  Ivandred sent a considering look at his cousin. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I’ve been to two of these things, now, while you’ve been sitting around your campfire sharpening arrows or swords, or whatever it is you do. I believe this will demonstrate better than I can how they think,” Macael replied, sitting back with his arms folded.

  Ivandred turned his attention to the neighboring boxes and met a speculative glance from a pretty woman with a dimpled chin and brown ringlets, who promptly transferred her gaze to Macael. She whirled her fan in one of those butterfly patterns, and Macael smiled back, touching his folded fan to his eyebrow in salute.

  Then the glowglobes in the audience portion dimmed, and everyone faced the stage with an air of expectation. The characters came out, one in a stiff brocade overvest, rapier at his side. He minced, nose in the air. From the other side strolled people in plainer clothing.

  “I have decided to court a princess from a great land,” the man in brocade declared.

  “Why so far away, your lordship?” asked one of the bowing men in plain clothes. Ah—of course, a servant. Imagine putting servants on stage! In home plays, runners only appeared to deliver messages. Servants, never.

  The audience laughed. No great lands near home, was that the joke?

  “Hum-mumbler! Because it is the fashion,” replied his lordship. “Fashion defines the man of royal rank.”

  The servants looked at one another and gave exaggerated shrugs. Then the second one said, “But does not the man of royal rank refine the fashion?”